


Peripheral

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [54]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 1998: Back in Chicago, Ray's having a hard time finding his feet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peripheral

Ray rubbed over his face for the twenty-third time in the last hour, staring down at the open file on his desk.  He was in the uncomfortable state of knowing there was an answer here and being unable to see it.  It should have been cut-and-dry.  He should be able to see it.  He was a first rate Detective, for Christ's sake.  He had all of the witness statements, taken by the uniform on the call.  He had all of the photographic evidence, splayed out across the surface of his desk.  He'd done his followup calls.  All he had to do was put it together.

It was his first case since he'd been allowed off of desk duty.  Well over a month and a half after being shot.  Two weeks after returning from Florida, and the month where everything fell apart; he was still in the process of divorce.  It left him very few places to go where he felt anything like safe, and so he had crawled back to Chicago.

He was still restricted to light duty, until a doctor cleared him for heavier stuff.  At the rate he was going, though, Ray wasn't sure if that would ever happen.

He felt burned out and used up, and he nearly lived at the 2-7 because he felt utterly out of place under his own roof.  But Ray didn't even have any self-pity left in him.  All he had was the sensation of being adrift, and a desk that looked like a bomb had gone off on it.

A flash of red crossed his peripheral vision, and Ray snapped his head up and over to look before he even realized he had; sense memory, a moment's flash of something aside numbness or ache.  A color he knew too well.  A color he didn't particularly expect to see again.

 _Benny?_

But no.  The man wearing the uniform was taller, not quite as broad, sandy-haired and decidedly less self-assured.

 _Turnbull._

Ray couldn't dredge up any irritation for that little flash of wishful thinking gone awry.  It was probably another piece of information about the Muldoon case, which had been quite a huge joint venture.  The cleanup from that disaster would be months in the process.  Ray still felt a dull ache when he twisted or breathed wrong.

He ran his hand over his face for the twenty-fourth time.  Looked back down at his folder.  It was here.  He knew it was, too.  A theft case, fairly simple stuff.  There were only so many people who had access to that apartment, and there had been no signs of forced entry.  It was, therefore, an inside job.  But who?

The answer was there, but Ray just couldn't see it.

He slapped his palms down on the file with a brief snarl, then fell back into his seat to slump, palms pressed to his eyes now.  Breathed.  Ached and breathed and spun his wheels in the mud trying to find the answer.  It was a _simple case_.  He could _do this_.

Why couldn't he do this?

He breathed, and ached.  Finally, his mind cleared some, and then he just breathed.

There was a fresh mug of coffee on his desk when he dropped his hands, left in the only clear spot.  Steaming.  Ray stared at it for a long moment, uncertainly.  That was something Elaine would do for him, when she knew he was tired or miserable.  But Elaine was gone, and Frannie wouldn't -- she'd tell him to get his own damn coffee.

He lifted his head slightly and caught that flash of red, disappearing from sight.

It was strange how something could feel like washed-out grief and gratitude, all at the same time.  His smile was just a twitch, broken and touched.

Ray wrapped his hand around the mug, stroking the warm porcelain with his thumb, and went back to his file.


End file.
